Tuesday, June 19: High-Heeled Gumshoe
NOT NOW, I HAVE A HEADACHE
by Melodie Johnson Howe
I have been reading writers workshop manuscripts. The good news is I discovered one very talented writer. The bad news is all the writers, talented or not, are having trouble making their male and female characters relate to one another.
Why is this happening? Of course characterization, or the lack of it, has a great deal do with the problem. But that alone didn’t solve the puzzle for me until I came across another manuscript. Here the writer describes every detail of a room instead of dealing with the man and woman sitting in that room. Instead of focusing on the sexual tension, the writer focuses on minutia. I realized it’s not just a matter of talent and craft. It’s a matter of avoidance. Why this unease?
Part of it is our schizophrenic culture. We have blatant sexual images of women constantly thrown at us. We have gone from the heights of Marilyn Monroe to the lows of Paris Hilton. And in these commercial images there is nothing but a pervasive narcissism: “I’m the one who is sexy and beautiful.†Who cares about the guy? On the other side we have political correctness. I’m sorry but the feminists are turning out be their grandmothers. They’re like aged Victorian women swooning whenever they see a pinup in a fire station or a wink from a male employee. Then we have Sex in the City. Or at least the reruns. Career women who have sex at the drop of hat. And yet they want to have babies, marry Mr. Big and not die from cancer. And if they can’t have babies they’ll settle happily for expensive little Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.
And the men? In the music videos they are the ones who have the women crawling at their feet. They do the bumping and grinding. In the movies they shoot off guns, crash cars, and kick box with indestructible women. In the so-called romantic comedies we see baby-men, who have all the maturity of a thirteen year old, found fascinating and cute by women who have all the judgment of a thirteen year old. Commercials portray most men as husbands and fathers and stupid. One commercial went so far as to portray a husband and father as a horse’s ass, literally.
Yet despite all these conflicting sexual images of men and women in our society the prim reality of political correctness still holds strong.
I think these new writers have to take the PC and BS out of their minds. I long to read a new Kinky Friedman. Sorry ladies. Ian Rankin through his character Rebus manages to create a man with a sex drive. But Rebus can also maintain a tense but tender relationship, sans sex, with his partner, Siobhan. This in itself becomes sexy. And Rankin tells one hell of a mystery story.
New writers need to stop watching movies, television, and music videos. They need to sit down and think about what it is to be a man. To be a woman.
How about the touch of a hand? That’s good start. But not right now, I have a headache.
Notice how all the men remain silent? Uncertain of reception of any response? Damned if they do and damned if they don’t?
How many times since the 70s have we heard the cliché, “No man is as important as my …?” What, expensive little Cavalier King Charles Spaniels? Be careful what we wish for.
I’ve addressed such issues in a couple of stories. I apologize if I overuse the comment space, but hey, no one else dares talk.
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Tuesday was not a day I would ever care to relive.
The morning began well enough. My tiniest Julien MacDonald dress, the one with a neckline that plunged deeper than the Atlantic Shelf, should have been just about perfect. I checked Chris’ Outlook appointment calendar to see when he would be due back from lunch. At noon, I asked my pal Cindy to message me when she saw him get off the elevator.
She called.
Shrugging off the blazer that had kept my outfit from getting me arrested, I perched on the edge of Christopher’s desk like a girly-girl package of candy. I pulled the hem of my dress up so that just the edge of it and my pantyhose-clad bottom rested on the surface.
Tossing a joke back over his shoulder, Chris walked in and halted in surprise.
“Hull-o. What are you doing here?â€
“I want us to celebrate your promotion. Shut the door, Chris.â€
“That… is not a good idea.â€
“Your promotion or not shutting the door?â€
“Look, I’m not sure what you’re up to. You have someone playing Candid Camera?â€
“No, silly. I just candidly want you and me to play. Can’t I give you a celebratory kiss?â€
“No, you can’t. Clear out now, and let’s get back to work. And put your jacket back on, please.â€
“Chris, I’ve fantasized about you for a long time. Isn’t it time we got something going?â€
“That’s not going to happen. Really, cut it out.â€
This was not going as I had planned.
“I thought you liked me, Chris.â€
“I do like you. That’s why I’m being polite, even if I’m not so good at being gentle, but you caught me off guard.â€
“I know you’re attracted to me. Why don’t you admit it?â€
“We’re not going there. I can’t afford to.â€
“But surely you’ve wanted me.â€
“What I want doesn’t matter. Twenty, forty, sixty years ago, the workplace was where most people met others to date, court, and even marry. Now the rules dictate that men and women cannot follow what comes naturally. What little isn’t against the law is now against office policy. Sad, but true.â€
“But that only applies to bosses and subordinates, doesn’t it?â€
“It applies to guys. Technically, until your next promotion, you are my subordinate for the next six or nine months. Even so, the company has a no dating / no nepotism policy. If we want to date, one of us has to leave the company. I can’t afford to, can you?â€
“Listen, Chris, I won’t tell.â€
“I believe you probably mean that, and, I’m sure thousands of women out there successfully keep such secrets. However, hundreds of others in this city alone have brought lawsuits, and it’s usually the guy who pays the price. Look at Boeing’s Harry Stonecipher; he was fired, not his ‘unnamed executive interest’. A handful of guys and gals ruined things for everyone else. It’s a no-win situation I can’t afford to lose.â€
Stung, I slid off his desk and shouldered into my blazer. “What you’re saying is that I’m not worth taking a chance on.â€
“What I’m saying is that I could be violating not only company policy, but conceivably federal, state, and possibly municipal laws, and that I have no defense if I succumb.†He paused, and then more gently said, “Look, I realize you put your self-esteem and your heart on the line to approach me. This caught me by surprise and I hope you forgive me that I’ve fumbled this situation with bad grace. I’m absolutely no good at sneaking around or any other subtlety. What I am good at is being loyal and keeping my mouth shut. No one other than the two of us will know what happened today. I’d like to tell you that in a couple of days I’ll have forgotten about it, but the truth is that I’m flattered you picked me, and that will stick with me for a while. Are we okay?â€
Last night, just before I put up Melodie’s post, I went to a meeting of Royal Arch Masons in Santa Monica. (Women are not allowed to be Masons, not because they are considered second class citizens, but because Masonry is a fraternity.) At 52, I’m one of the youngsters in the group.
We were there to plan our 100th Anniversary party as a Chapter. As part of the celebration, we’re planning a souvenir program. As part of the souvenir program, we plan to list the names of prominent members of our chapter. So I went and got our book of By-Laws, which each of us is required to sign when we join. I opened the book at random and it opened to signatures from the 1930s. The first line that caught my eye was:
5/12/34 Clark Gable 220 No Bristol Brentwood Ca
Sigh. A guy from when guys were guys.
Sigh. A guy from when guys were guys.
Yeah and women were spunky, sassy and sexy without being sluts. Where did that time go?
New writers need to stop watching movies, television, and music videos. They need to sit down and think about what it is to be a man. To be a woman.
That’s the trouble, I Think. Too many writers (and everyone else, for that matter) take their cues nowadays from television and the movies. Celebrities, and celebrities portraying fictional characters, have become de facto role models.
Media can and will influence us, but it shouldn’t be the final prescription for how to live our lives. It’s a hollow foundation.
Monkey see, monkey do, I guess.
“Yeah and women were spunky, sassy and sexy without being sluts. Where did that time go?”
It’s a perennial question. In the 15th century, the outlaw-poet Villon (1431-?) addressed his “Prince” as follows:
“Prince, do not ask in a week
or yet in a year where they are;
I could only give this refrain:
but where are the snows of bygone years?”
(Anthony Bonner translation)
Hey-ya-all. I know a lot of women “who are spunky, sassy and sexy without being sluts.” They look like easter lilies, talk like barmaids, and sashay ’round town like little veal cutlets. Of course, they’re married with kids and jobs and dogs. But they brook no BS in their vans nosirreee. Great lines in this here essay.
Hey-ya-all. I know a lot of women “who are spunky, sassy and sexy without being sluts.â€
Okay, I was thinking movies in the Clark Gable era that was state when guys were guys and putting it in reference to the column which said to quit watching media, movies, etc!!! Sorry. Didn’t explain myself well. No spunk and sass here.
I , too know a lot of spunky, sassy, and I will pass judgement on sexy women as well in real life.
I love to read a story where men are men and women are women. Sex is becoming a bodily function. Where is the romance and tenderness of love? I think a lot of the “younger writer” have not lived in a time when a touch of the hand can make passions soar.